


Ignis’s Sweet and Spicy Cygillan Crab (Sweet Version)

by 1000Needles



Series: Ignis’s Sweet and Spicy Cygillan Crab [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 21:23:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9091324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000Needles/pseuds/1000Needles
Summary: Ignis and Gladio spend a night together in Altissia before the summit. Although this story takes place prior to the events of Chapter 9, it foreshadows later chapters. Includes consensual light bondage.





	

"A common mistake of novice cooks," Ignis explains, stirring orange zest into the cake batter, "is to omit salt. Without salt, a dessert will taste unpleasantly sweet, lacking the necessary complement of the other flavors salt brings out in a recipe."

It is the last night before they get on the boat to Altissia, and Ignis is making a dessert to celebrate. 

 

LOADING

 

Altissia, city of lights! "It's so romantic," Prompto says, awestruck; they arrive in late afternoon and spend hours exploring, each turn revealing a new wonder, until it's full night and Noctis wants to stay up gambling at the arena.

"Our funds are limited," Ignis says reluctantly; Gladio gives him a surreptitious pinch. "All right. Do you know the way back to the hotel?"

"Yes, yes," says Noct perfunctorily, putting his money on a grotesque beast.

"Let's get something to eat," Gladio says. "They'll be fine."

It begins to rain as they walk. The wet surfaces double and triple the glittering lights, until the whole city is awash in color.

They share a crab dish at Maagho, curried with coconut milk and hot spices. "Not as good as yours," says Gladio, through a mouthful. He orders more wine. 

Afterwards, they wander, pass a jazz band, put some gil in the hat, sample gelato (the breeze is hot, despite the rain), look at expensive clothes through the windows of closed shops. It's nearly morning. "Not the Leville."

"No." They find a cheaper, shabbier place on the edge of the water.

Inside, Ignis paces. Gladio reclines, barefoot, watching. There's a tautness that Ignis never relinquishes (not until he's on his knees, thinks Gladio, feeling the wine and craving those lips, that cool curl of a bare smile). Whenever they get a motel room, Noct and Prompto take advantage of the soft beds by sprawling like puppies. Ignis commandeers a chair and crosses his arms and legs, folding himself into an angular arrangement of limbs: it makes Gladio tense just looking at him. 

"You're worried about tomorrow."

Ignis doesn't reply at first, staring out the window at the lights. Then he says, "It was never just a road trip."

This is a truth that Gladio can't dodge or block. He remembers the first time he put his hand in Ignis's hair, back at that beach campfire, the games they played together in the car or in Lestallum back alleys, Ignis always daring him into something more decadently delicious, a heady contest of who could make the other submit first or second or, gasping from pleasure, a third or fourth time. Ignis, who loved strategy, never tired of games.

In a calculated gambit, he says, "You want to play?" In truth, he has begun to desire something sweeter. But he knows what Ignis likes.

Gladio is shocked, then, when Iggy's head falls back against the padded armchair and those brilliant eyes slide closed. "I don't know if I can do this," he says.

He's off the bed before he realizes it. Something is terribly wrong. He kneels before Ignis, takes his hands. "Talk to me."

There is a long moment, hand-to-hand, and then Ignis says, "Umbra asked us if we wanted to go back to the past. Why would he do that, when Cape Caem is just a boat ride away?"

Gladio bows his head. He has been avoiding the same question. "I know."

They stay frozen like this, Gladio on his knees, Ignis in the chair, his hands in Gladio's. Then, with a dreadful force of effort, Gladio unfastens the glove on Ignis's left hand. He peels the fabric down until the soft pale skin is exposed. Ignis opens his eyes. "What are you doing?"

Gladio lifts his face. "Tonight I'm not letting you wear them to bed." He pulls off the second glove. Ignis's hands rest in his, delicate and ivory, unscarred. Gladio brings them to his lips, extends his tongue, sucking the soft tips into his mouth. Like everything Ignis, they are delicious.

Ignis, always Ignis, resists for a moment; then the tension breaks and he relaxes into the pleasure, letting Gladio run his tongue, daringly, up the knuckles, over the wristbones, licking around his taut tendons. It is always hard to get Ignis to stop intellectualizing and simply enjoy himself. 

“Extraordinary, Gladio.”

“What did you expect?”

When Gladio reaches for one of his boots, though, he straightens and pulls away.

"I'm not letting you wear those to bed, either," Gladio says, grinning.

"I'm perfectly capable of removing my own footgear."

Gladio sits back on his heels. "You're perfectly capable of everything. For one night, at least, will you let me do something for you?"

Ignis considers. Then he moves from the chair, goes to the open window, where the jazz music is still rising lazily from the street below. He leans his elbows on the sill. Gladio, who knows by now that Ignis does nothing without purpose, waits patiently. When the music pauses, he calls down.

"Play Vamo' alla Flamenco, and there's a thousand-gil piece in it for you!"

"You're on!" yells back one of the musicians. Ignis tosses the coin down. There's a series of cheers, then the band strikes up the song with new enthusiasm. Ignis pulls the diaphanous curtains closed. The lights from below still fill the room, but now they are diffuse and dreamy.

"Dance," he says.

Gladio rocks back on his heels, lifts an eyebrow. "Dance?" He doesn't try to stop the smile growing on his face. Ignis never fails to surprise him.

"You heard me." Ignis settles back in the chair, crossing his legs. "Make it sexy, please."

A laugh rumbles out of Gladio's chest. 

He rises gracefully from his squatting position, pleased to put all those endless leg exercises to some use besides killing things. Gladio is not unaware of the effect he has on people. It has always entertained him to test Ignis's icy reserve. In the car, sometimes, he says things in mock innocence from behind his book, just to watch the tips of Ignis's ears turn red as he stares straight ahead at the road and the boys chatter on without noticing.

He strikes a dancer's pose, facing the bed, his back to Ignis; dancing is not so very different from fencing. The tips of his fingers push the jacket off his shoulders, baring them as he tosses a glance backwards, then lets the leather slip to the floor, his hands coming to rest on the upper part of his ass, thumbs hooked in the belt loops.

"Very nice," says Ignis.

If Gladio weren't already hard, the undisguised lust in Ignis's voice would have done it. He runs his hands up his sides, over the clinging tank top, then into his hair, giving his body a shake in time with the music. His hips feel liquid; he moves them languorously, hands on his head, and imagining Iggy's eyes devouring his ass in those tight leather pants makes the blood rush to his face and his cock. He remembers that he's supposed to be teasing Ignis and not himself and turns to face him, still moving with the music.

"Is this sexy enough for you?"

"If this is a striptease, I dare say you're still wearing far too much clothing," Ignis says. He's smiling. 

A smile, from Ignis, is a rare enough thing that he's glad he turned around to see it. His fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt and he slides it slowly up his skin, dancing, peeling it off, necklace falling against his bare chest, and swings it over his head, tosses it to Ignis. He runs his hands over his tattoos, not breaking eye contact, and Ignis brings the shirt to his face, inhales. Gladio groans.

"That's fucking sexy."

"Your pants are still on."

The bed is oversized, with heavy carved posts at all four corners. Gladio turns to face the bed, grasps a post in each hand, displaying the rippling muscles of his back to best advantage, and swings his ass to the flamenco. It feels good to move to the rhythm of music instead of battle. He hears Ignis's breath get heavier and, satisfied with the effect he's creating, begins to unbutton his pants, still grinding. The leather slides down his legs and he kicks it to one side, then poses again, palms splayed wide over his naked buttocks, head cocked over one shoulder, and winks at Iggy.

"Was that what you wanted?"

Ignis throws him the shirt. “I want you to close your mouth and do as you’re told. You’ll be using that as a blindfold. Tie it over your eyes, please."

Gladio drops the pose. "Are you serious?"

"That's _yes, sir,"_ says Ignis, “and you have thirty seconds before I do it myself.”

Gladio pulls the stretchy fabric over his eyes, knots it tightly at the base of his skull. “It's on.”

“Good. Lie on the bed.” 

Gladio complies, a little awkwardly since he can't see what he's doing, listens for movements, but hears nothing. No surprise there; Ignis has the silent and deadly grace of a coeurl. Gladio has been blindfolded in training exercises, but never in bed. It's unsettling how exposed it makes him feel, and perversely, even more aroused. After a while, one of his hands is lifted, looped in something; Ignis's belt? Then the other—his own belt, probably. He feels Ignis's weight on the bed and then his hips jerk in surprise as a warm mouth closes around his cock. Iggy swears and pulls back.

"Titan's balls, you almost knocked my teeth out. Is your pelvic bone made of iron?"

Gladio laughs, relaxes. "Sorry. I can't help it, I have incredible reflexes, don't you know that by now?" 

Ignis slaps his hip lightly. "Well, turn them off."

Gladio wants to make a joke about being turned on, but before he can put the words together, Ignis takes him into his mouth again and all his linguistic capability just melts away. "I thought you were going to let me please you tonight," he manages, when Ignis comes up for breath.

"You are pleasing me," Ignis says. But he doesn't go back for more, and Gladio wonders for a moment if he annoyed him, until Ignis settles on top of him and forces a grunt out of his mouth as he works his ass down Gladio's cock, resting finally, straddling him, with all the length of it deep inside.

"Oh, fuck," says Gladio; his brain doesn't seem capable of stringing anything else together. "Fuck, Iggy. That's fucking good."

A hand slides over his face, caresses the curve of his jaw. "Don't make me gag you," Ignis says. He begins to rock; Gladio's hips lift to meet him. They pick up the pace, they are both panting too hard now to talk, Gladio feels a drop of Ignis's sweat hit his cheek. His muscles are so tense, jerking against the restraints, that he has a fleeting worry he might break the bed, which quickly disappears into the single-minded focus on nothing but what Ignis is doing. He can't see, he can't touch, he can only groan helplessly until finally he has to force himself to speak.

"I'm going to come," he says, fingers clenching on air.

"Do it."

"You first."

"I want to watch your face while you come," Ignis says, implacably; it's those words, it's Ignis's voice, that pushes him over the edge. It seems to go on forever, his hips bucking, Ignis taking it, matching his thrusts. When they slow, stop, his throat feels raw, and he laughs, between deep breaths, as if he's been running a long distance.

"You should have gagged me. They're going to send the manager up."

He feels Ignis's weight shift forward. His hands are slipped free of the loops, Ignis taking them in his. "Please me," Ignis says, and puts his cock into Gladio's hands.

"Yes," Gladio breathes; it's so good to be able to use his hands at last. He grips Ignis's cock as he would his own, except it's a mirror image, he's finding the sweet spot on the opposite side of where it is when he's stroking himself, and he doesn't think he makes sounds as pretty as the ones that Ignis is making right now. "Please let me see you," he finds himself begging, "I want to see you, Iggy."

A hand pushes the cloth off his forehead, then returns to his thigh. Ignis is leaning back, still straddling him, still holding his softening cock inside, hands supporting himself on Gladio's thighs, head thrown back, glasses fogged. It's like a slap, a good one, the way the image hits him: Iggy is fucking beautiful. And he's gasping, his lips are parted in bliss, his eyes are closed, Gladio's hands are wrapped firmly around his cock, giving him every bit of pleasure that Gladio knows how to provide, exactly what he likes best when he's alone in bed, every roll of a thumb, twist of a fist. When Ignis comes it goes all over Gladio's chest, warm and wet, and Gladio slows his pace, squeezes gently once, twice more, until he finishes shuddering.

They rest like that for a moment, catching their breath, and then Ignis lifts himself up. "I hope they gave us towels," he says, and disappears into the bathroom. Gladio is too wrung out to protest; he lets Ignis wipe him down, but when Ignis starts to get up again, he grabs his wrist.

"Just throw them on the floor, would you?"

Uncharacteristically, Ignis complies. "Very well." He settles in next to Gladio. They have never spent the night alone together, not the whole night, Gladio realizes. Until tonight, it's been rushed encounters stolen when possible. Of course, it's barely night now; the bright city lights through the curtains are already being supplanted by dawn.

"Look," he says. "Sunrise."

Ignis doesn't open his eyes. "The prince won't wake until afternoon."

Gladio, who has never before considered himself a romantic, says, "Will you watch the sun rise with me? And then we'll sleep."

Ignis rouses himself enough to push himself up on his elbows and give Gladio an appraising stare. Then he gets out of bed and throws the curtains wide.


End file.
